Eight
by DancinThroughLife
Summary: After the fall of Hydra, The Winter Soldier saved Captain America from the Potomac. He was left struggling with his identity, alone and making choices on his own for the first time in years. But what if he wasn't alone between then and Civil War? What if Bucky had a friend? Hydra ran experiments on other people during their time...what if they created another Assassin?
1. Chapter 1

"Vosem"

Eight

A/N- I definitely don't own any part of the Marvel Universe, but that doesn't mean I can't love Bucky Barnes. This is a plot that has been bugging me for a while, so I decided to write it down. If it seems like something interesting, let me know and I'll work on continuing the story! EIGHTis my creation - hopefully she ends up being pretty cool!

Chapter 1: The Fall of Hydra

The streets of Washington, D.C. were quiet this morning, the spring dew still clinging tight to the cars and grass patches. In this run down neighborhood, in a poorer part of the city, only two things could be heard at this hour just as the sun was rising up in the sky. One noise was that of the overworked and underpaid trash collectors working their way through the bins a few blocks down. The other sound was the shuffling and stumbling of a combat boot along the cracked sidewalk. The figure wearing the boot was clad in black workout leggings and a matching black short sleeved top. They were working their way down the block in their one shoe, their white socked foot slapping against the concrete as they went. Every so often, they crashed into a trashcan or bumped against a stoop, tripping over the cracks between raised sections of the walkway.

If another person saw them stumbling down the block, they would have looked like a drunk making their way home after a night out. But this person was so very much more than that. As they clumsily made their way down the block, the figure took stock of what they knew, which unfortunately wasn't much at this point. This was their first problem. The list of what they could remember was short...too short for any normal adult. As they walked, they kept going over what they knew in their mind:

They were a woman with fair skin and light brown hair from what they could see.

She went by "Vosem" or "Eight". The first language was Russian she thought, not that she knew why she understood Russian. She was in the United States from what she saw on the signs and buildings.

Every person she encountered in the last 6 hours since she woke up has attempted to kill her, except the drunk guy she tripped over a few alleyways back.

She was dangerously close to passing out on this street.

2365 Capehart Circle, Washington, D.C.

After going over those things over and over to make sure she didn't suddenly forget them, the girl realized again how close to passing out she was. Looking up at the street sign she now leaned against, her tired blue eyes finally read "Capehart Circle." A smile ghosted across her tired split lips as she continued down that street. Eight attempted to focus on the worn building numbers as she went, still running into stoops and bins when she wasn't paying attention.

2357...2359...2361...2363...2367…

She paused her stride, her thin fingers wrapping around a flickering street light post outside of 2367. She missed it - what exactly she had missed, she wasn't sure, but she knew that she needed 2365 and she had walked past it. It took more strength that was normally necessary for Eight to turn back around, her eyes searching the broken and condemned structures along the sidewalk. With a wheezing breath, she counted the nearby visible numbers quietly to herself, "2361, 2363, 2367…"

There it was... an unmarked building between 2363 and 2367. The stairs out front were crumbling and most of the windows were broken and boarded up from the inside. After taking a moment to lean against the streetlight, she gathered the strength she needed to haul her broken body back toward the building. Vosem left behind a drip of deep red down the metal post, the syrupy blood in finger smudge shapes. As she reached the top of the steps, she was painfully gasping for breath, leaning her forehead against the cracked paint on the door. She tried the handle, which looked as old and as broken as the building itself and it felt locked. She tipped her up, looking at the building before her, feeling that she needed to get inside. Eight huffed painfully, her left hand pressing against her left thigh.

"What are you doing… you need to get inside…." she whispered to herself, feeling a tear slip down her cheek and hearing it splat against the concrete below. It landed right next to a few darker drips of blood running down her body. With a burst of energy she didn't think she still had, Eight reared back slightly and slammed her right shoulder into the door. It gave way quite easily under her strength and her body went crashing down to the floor of the entryway.

"Ow…." she whimpered against the floor, "Didn't actually think that would work…." As quickly as she could manage, Eight kicked at the open exterior door with her booted right foot and closed it up again. She was worried that some squatters nearby could have heard the commotion of her breaking into the house. At this stage, she wouldn't be able to protect herself from anyone with wandering eyes. With the door closed off from the light of the rising run, she was plunged into darkness with her cheek pressed painfully against the old hardwood.

She let herself lay there for a moment, the cool feeling of the wood felt wonderful against her clammy skin. _Fever...chills..._ She thought as a shiver racked it's way through her body. Eight rolled over onto her side carefully as she looked up at the next door. Her mind acknowledged that she seemed to be able to see well despite the lack of light, but filed that fact in the back of her mind for later. This next door was much newer and looked to be more intimidating. It was a strong looking metal door, complete with a combination locking handle. _What is a fancy door like that doing in a shithole like this?_ she thought to herself as she reached for that handle to haul her body upright. She tried to ignore the pain that shot through her body as she adjusted to be standing again, he left leg and head both pulsing with a deep ache. Eight also made a mental note to not look down at the floor, avoiding the dark puddle and smudges she knew were left on the wood from her blood.

Instead, she focused on the combination lock which looked to have a 4-digit code associated with it. This posed yet another problem, going back to the fact that Eight was only able to remember 5 major facts about anything at the moment. Her blue eyes closed tightly as she felt another tear slip down her cheek, cringing at her weakness.

"только идиот бы получать к адрес и не знать код." (Only an idiot would get to the address and not know the code) she said to herself in Russian, hating how helpless she felt. "Just perfect…"

Thinking through everything she knows, Eight types 2365 into the combination lock and it didn't work. She wasn't exactly surprised by that, but it didn't stop her from feeling frustrated. She attempted a few more easy combinations on a 4-digit lock - 0000, 1234, 0001 - but, the more she stood against the metal door, the more worn out she got. As she was about to slump down onto the floor again and give up, a familiar number popped into the front of her mind. EIGHT...her name. Out of the small number of things she knew, the number "eight" was the only other number that meant anything to her. She had already tried 0008 a minute ago, so she moved the dials to read 8888 -

The clicking open of the lock reverberated in the small entryway like the blast of an explosion. Eight's bloody, but nimble fingers wrapped quickly around the handle and turned. She let out an exasperated whine as it opened, shuffling her body through the door and closing it behind her. With sound of the door mechanically locking once more, she leaned back and took as deep of a breath as she could.

 _Safe...You are Safe..._

Eight felt safe for the first time since she woke up hours ago and it was a strange feeling for her. She wanted to dwell on why she had never felt safe before that, but she knew that she didn't have time to dawdle as another bout of dizziness threatened to knock her over.

She moved deeper into the building with well practiced precision, trying to make as little noise as possible just in case someone else was there. The building looked like a modern apartment on the inside, well maintained and furnished. _This is a Safe House,_ she thought as she worked her way past a kitchen and into a bigger open living room area. Her left hand still gripped her thigh as she limped along, taking in the dusty couch and other furnishings in the room. Eight didn't realize she was leaving more bloody handprints and smudges in her wake as she made it through the apartment, brushing against the light colored walls. Before she realizes it, her body is moving toward the bedroom - she knows where she's going. This house was familiar to her, as if she'd been there before in another lifetime. Unfortunately, the comforting feeling of familiarity was short lived as she missed a small step up into the bedroom.

Her booted foot caught on the lip of the step and her exhausted body went crashing down to the floor yet again with a thud. She was grateful that this floor was carpeted, but it wasn't cushioned enough to prevent the cracks she felt in her chest when she landed. Eight stayed still, waiting for the pain to stop radiating through her body. To distract herself from each excruciating breath, she looked around the dark bedroom.

Bed…

Desk…

Dresser…

Bookshelf...

A few notebooks on a shelf.

The gray striped comforter on the bed seemed familiar as well, a tugging feeling forming in the back of her mind. It felt like a memory begging to to make it to the surface. The more Eight tried to focus on it, the more the black dots that had been threatening her vision started to close in around her. That "familiar" feeling was fading quickly and it was replaced by a feeling of drowsiness. With one final and painful sigh, Eight let herself sink into the warm darkness. Her deep blue eyes closed as she finally gave into the painless abyss of unconsciousness.

Across the city, the area around downtown D.C. and the monuments was still partially locked down. The day before, three airborne ships had risen up out of the Potomac near the S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters before crashing back down to earth in a fiery blaze. Everyone learned that the former Nazi organization Hydra had not actually died off in World War II, courtesy of Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Since the end of the war, Hydra had been growing inside Shield and the international governments like a virus, corrupting all that was meant to be good and protecting the world.

Natasha Romanof, the Avenger known as The Black Widow, had poured all of SHIELD's files onto the internet and, in turn, exposed Hydra as well. The Nazi organization was trying to launch the carriers in order to assassinate millions of people who were viewed as a "threat" to the Hydra agenda. The news footage of Captain America fighting on the carriers made for great news reels about the incident and had also introduced the world to his new sidekick, Sam Wilson. He had been dubbed "The Falcon" by the media, referencing the mechanical wings he wore to fly and fight.

Due to the incident, the public was also exposed to The Winter Soldier - an impressive Hydra/KGB Assassin who was credited with over 2 dozen kills over a span of 50+ years. Until the data dump and crash, The Winter Soldier was just a ghost story. Unfortunately for Captain America, who ended up hospitalized with multiple gunshot wounds and facial lacerations, The Winter Soldier was very much real. The entire planet was left in chaos after the incident, trying to work out how to weed out the remaining Hydra agents embedded in various governments and how to pick up the pieces left in the wake. The Winter Soldier was still on the run.

He was confused and hiding in an abandoned warehouse, cradling his right arm close to his body. The Captain had dislocated his shoulder during their skirmish, but had somehow avoided doing much other damage to the assassin, which left him even more confused. The man with the red, white & blue shield felt familiar to the soldier - "Soldat" as he recalled. It was Russian for 'soldier.' The people he worked for frequently referred to him as "Soldat" or "The Asset." He racked his brain, trying to figure out why Captain America felt familiar or why the man kept saying Soldat knew him. A noise outside of the warehouse startled him and he realized he had stayed in one place too long.

He tugged his right shoulder back into its socket with well-practiced precision and moved out of his hiding spot. He made sure to avoid civilians as he made his way to a clothing donation store. He broke in quite easily and changed out of his black uniform. Soldat took special care to make sure that his left arm was completely covered by layers and a glove on his hand, knowing that the glinting metal of his prosthetic would give away his identity. He tucked his leather uniform into a tattered backpack and tugged a plain navy hat onto his head. He slipped back oout of the store just as easily as he slipped in and made his way toward the mall of museums.

He tucked the backpack behind a dumpster near the Smithsonian and climbed to the roof of the building. He had seen posters and billboards for an exhibit highlighting the life and history of "Captain America" and he needed to go there. The Captain knew him...knew The Soldat and he needed to know how or why. He didn't even really know who he was, at least not further than knowing his life as "The Asset", as the weapon for Hydra. He felt confused and lost on his own and deep down he hoped that he'd find answers inside the museum.

Using his assassin skills, Soldat snuck into the exhibit shortly after it had opened for the day. Filled with the general public, he knew that he'd be less likely to be spotted or trip any security measures than if he had broken in after hours. He pulled the ratty hat more securely onto his head and made his way into the main part of the exhibit. As he walked through, the deep voice of the narrator echoed over the hushed chatter of the visitors. It was detailing the life of Steve Rogers, who would come to be known as Captain America.

When the Soldier saw a photo of a small man, only standing about 5'4" and weighing less than 100lbs, he felt a pang of familiarity. The man in the photo was so frail looking…. "Steve Rogers before the administration of the super serum" he read quietly to himself. He received the serum during World War II and would grow to become the second photo. The next photo was familiar because it was the 6'2", 240lb hero he had fought the day before on the helicarrier. With the two images side by side, Soldat was able to see the similarities between the two and found himself able to reconcile that he must have known the smaller version before he grew bigger.

A deep pain was building in his head as he looked between the two pictures. This ache was also familiar to him, knowing that when he was out of cryo for too long or had a long mission, his headache would worsen. He always took comfort in knowing when it got bad that he'd be put back to sleep soon, but now he didn't see that light at the end of this dark tunnel.

He was compromised.

Hydra was compromised.

Everything was compromised.

He walked away from the painful pictures and moved deeper into the exhibit, adeptly avoiding the small children and their parents milling about. He took in more of the memorabilia, a motorcycle, a few uniforms. Behind the dummies wearing World War II era uniforms, the Soldat saw a familiar face looming over the room. There was a man, standing on Captain America's left side...he had familiar blue eyes and a hard set jaw. The Soldat turned away quickly, as though he had been burned but the image, only to be met by the same familiar face on another wall across the way. He walked carefully closer to the glass, a small child cutting in front of him to push the narrator button. The narrator's voice filled the Soldier's ears once more,

"Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both the school yard and the battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country…."

The voice continued to detail the events leading up to Barnes' death in 1945, but the Soldier stopped listening. He was fixated on the fact that his face was staring back at him from the exhibit wall. Bucky Barnes...that was the name the Captain had called him during their fight. "Barnes…" he breathed quietly, the only names he could remember being called were Soldat, The Asset or The Winter Soldier.

Who was Bucky?

Was he Bucky?

Did that mean that all the things The Captain said were true….?

That would make him born in 1917….?

The pain in his head sharpened abruptly as his mind filled with questions. This time, the pain was enough for him to visibly wince and enough to force him to move toward the nearest exit. He left the museum quickly, moving without a sound back to his bag and then away from the museum. The Soldier didn't know how long he'd been walking for when he finally stopped and sat down behind a dumpster and out of sight. His mind was still racing painfully, trying to piece together what he'd seen and heard along with what had just happened over the past few days.

 _Your work has been a gift to mankind…_ he heard a voice in his head say. But that man in the museum was him...looked like him. He was supposed to have died in 1945….He knew Captain America...he knew Steve…

The Soldier's hands gripped his head painfully as he was huddled against the wall. There were only a few things that he knew, facts that her so deep inside of his bones. One glaring fact that he couldn't seem to shake was an address in D.C. - 2365 Capehart Circle. It was a safe house from what he could recall.

"Go there in case of an emergency, Soldat. I set it up, but Hydra doesn't know about it. If we ever remember again or if we get away….go there!" he can vividly remember a feminine voice telling him. He couldn't remember who she was, or why she had set up a safe house for them, all The Soldier knew what that he needed to get to that address.

Eight's eyes opened slowly, focusing under the edge of the bed and into a dark corner of the bedroom she passed out in. She was still on the floor, in the safe house, with her hands now pressing down into the carpet firmly to ground herself. She was trying to stabilize herself as she tried to heave her body upright, only to have her head swim painfully again when she tried to move. It was impossible to tell how long she'd been unconscious, but it was long enough for her blood to soak into the carpet beneath her. She managed to roll onto her right side to face away from the bed, feeling her skin and shirt peel off of the carpet in a sticky mess. She could see the bathroom a few feet from her and 'knew' that there'd be a medical kit beneath the sink. She needed to make it to that bathroom.

She arduously army crawled into the small bathroom, the fibers of the carpet stuck to her wounds and pulled painfully as she dragged herself over through the doorway. When she was finally inside, she managed to pull herself upright with the help of the countertop and flicked on the lights. The brightness stung her eyes, but as they adjusted to the light, Eight was finally able to take stock of her injuries and take in her body. She went into triage mode and knew she needed to fight through her pain to figure out which part of her to treat first.

The first thing she noticed was the color of her face, or the lack of color. In the harsh light of the bathroom, she seemed almost gray and lacked any healthy color. She had blood on her face from a few cuts and some bruising along her cheeks, but since her face wasn't actively bleeding she decided to move down her body. Her bloody fingers palpitated her chest, feeling down her ribs on each side. She definitely had broken a few on either side, but from what Eight could feel, none of them were out of place or in any danger of puncturing a lung. She tried to take a deep breath to test herself, but ended up almost crumbling back down to the floor.

She leaned down slightly, her hands gripping the sink as she tried to manage the pain and take even breaths again. "Note to self...don't try deep breaths until you wrap your ribs...идио́т" she whined, calling herself an idiot in Russian again, under her breath. She stood up again when she felt up to it and worked on continuing checking her wounds. Moving down her chest to her abdomen, Eight found one 6 inch cut on her left side and a shallow puncture wound on her right flank. She was able to painfully lift up the tight top to get a better look at the two wounds.

The gash would need stitches eventually to ensure it didn't open again, but in that moment it wasn't bleeding. _That's at least good…_ she thought, before moving over to the puncture. The 2 inch hole was still seeping, letting red blood run down her side and soaking into the top of her pants. Eight quickly grabbed a wad of tissues from counter top and pressed them into the hole. She whimpered as she pushed on it, blood splattering from her split lip down into the white sink.

"Shit...shit…." she repeated, still holding the tissues to the wound. When she was done riding those waves of pain, Eight made sure the tissues were still in place before tugging the top back down over the makeshift bandage. She continued to check over herself, looking down at her right leg. Everything looked to be okay on that side, she maybe had a sprained ankle - but that would heal soon enough on it's own. Her left leg, that was another story entirely. As she finally looked down at it and saw where she'd been pressing her hand, she groaned audibly. A new wave of pain washed over her as she took in the gaping hole in her thigh.

Her pant leg was dark below her thigh and the fabric was shiny with a sheen of blood. Her fingers reached down and tugged the hole in her leggings, ripping it open so she could see more of the bullet wound. Blood was visibly pouring from the hole, forcing Eight to quickly try to stem the flow with her hands. The pain caused her to slip on her wet sock and she fell down onto the tile floor.

"Ohhh shit….Oh God…." she cried, unable to stop the tears from slipping down her face. She was now wedged across the small floor, her feet pressed up against the cabinet and her back was flush with the tub. She reached forward with her right hand and opened the cabinet. Frantically, she moved some of the cleaning supplies out of the way and was able to find a medical kit behind the pipes. She didn't know how, but she knew that the bag would be there. She knew.

Her breathing was more labored now as she dug through the bag, searching for anything to stop the bleeding. She ripped open a few gauze packs and pressed them into her blood soaked thigh, crying out in the small bathroom as another spray of blood left her lips. Next, she found a packet of clotting powder, typically used in combat situations. She ripped off a corner with her teeth. As she held the packet in her hand, she searched the small bathroom for something to keep in her mouth. Eight grabbed a nearby towel from the cabinet and she shoved the corner of it into her mouth.

She bit down hard on the towel as she poured the powder into her bullet wound. She screamed into the towel, her eyes screwed shut so tightly that Eight swore she could see colors. This clotting powder was going to save her life, but it didn't save her from the searing pain it caused. She wanted desperately to give into the warmth of unconsciousness again, but she fought hard against it. Still biting down on the towel to muffle her screams, she packed her thigh with more gauze before opening a tourniquet from the bag. She gently lifted her leg off of the floor to slip the rope around it, cringing as she felt the legging fabric stick to the floor.

Eight tightened the straps with what little strength she had left, her body shaking with exertion. She could feel herself swaying against the tub, quickly grabbing more gauze to replace the tissues on her side. As she pressed it into her stab wound, she felt her body slumping sideways. She sunk down to the floor, her body curled up between the tub, toilet, and sink. Her chest was wheezing as she tipped over, black taking over her vision once more as she drifted into unconsciousness for the second time that day.

The Soldier made it to Capehart Circle in record time, his body seeming to remember the way on its own. He noticed a few smudges of blood on a nearby street sign, his body sensing immediately. He searched nearby for any signs of a struggle or any threats, but he didn't find any suspicious vehicles or snipers on the rooftops. The sun was high in the sky now, illuminating the deserted block. He knew for sure that he hadn't been followed, he was much to good of an assassin for that. He started to work his way down the block, finding a few drops of blood on the sidewalk or a smudge along a railing or step. Whoever he was following now was bleeding profusely and they weren't being careful about leaving a trail.

He looked to his right as he approached the number he was looking for, staring at the only door on the block lacking one. It was wedged between the odd number before and after; if he wasn't certain based on that fact, the blood littering the stoop and door gave it away. The Soldat looked around to make sure the coast was clear before he opened the door with a gentle nudge. It opened easily, showing evidence of being broken in, but that didn't worry him too much. What did worry him was the amount of blood on the floor in the entryway.

With everything that he learned over the past few days, he knew that he should be suspicious, but for some reason in that moment he felt concern instead of apprehension. It was the same feeling he had as he watched Captain America's vulnerable body falling from the burning helicarrier. When he landed in the water below, The Soldier felt compelled to jump in after him. He didn't know why, but he knew in his bones that he needed to help The Captain. _Maybe I am the Bucky Barnes from the museum…_ he thought to himself briefly, or maybe he wasn't. But standing in the dark mudroom of this safe house, filled with the scent of blood, The Soldier  knew he needed to get to the person inside. He bent down, letting his flesh fingers dip into one of the blood stains. Luckily, it was still damp - so there was hope that he wasn't too late.

His currently problem was that the interior door was locked with a sophisticated combination lock. He pushed against it with his body and it didn't budge. He even resorted to punching it with his metal arm, expecting it to cave in under the force, but the door stayed shut tightly. His arm didn't even make a dent. The Soldier needed the code, but he had no idea what it could be.

"Think….think….you have to remember something…." he chanted to himself quietly, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the door. His gray blue eyes stared down at the combination intently, trying to will it to open itself. He started to hit his head gently against the door in cadence, over and over, trying to knock the combination into his head. As he was about to resort to hitting it harder, The Soldier stood up straight as a rod with his eyes wide.

"Vosem'...Vosem'..." he whispered to himself in Russian, "What the hell is it about 8?" He moved the combination to read 0008 and it didn't unlock. His shoulders sagged in defeat briefly before he tried 8888 and it clicked open. As he pushed the door open, his mind was assaulted by another memory flash. This time, he saw a young woman with light brown hair. She was sitting on the edge of a Washington, D.C. rooftop, the monuments lit up in the background and she was smiling at him.

The memory faded as quickly as it popped into his mind, but The Soldat was moving through the house with more urgency now. He abandoned his bag by the closed door and was immediately alarmed by the amount of blood as he moved deeper into the house. He followed the trail quickly into the back room and found a dark stain in the carpet, with drag marks going into the attached bathroom. He paused mid-stride, the door was ajar and the light was on inside the bathroom. He could see two feet propped against the cabinet. The socked foot near the door was stained a deep red and the other foot had on a military style combat boot. Both were unmoving and, after seeing the horrific levels of blood throughout the safehouse, it unnerved him.

He tried to push the door open, but found that it was blocked by something, most likely the person the feet belonged to. He leaned his head through the opening and his blue eyes widened at the sight of the young woman before him on the floor. It was the girl from his memory, but her smiling face was gone and she was in a crumpled, bloody mess and she wasn't moving.

"Vosem'..." he breathed out, maneuvering his body through the gap in the door without jostling her too much. He threw his hat onto the counter before he crouched down next to her, wedging in the minimal space left in the small bathroom. He gently moved her away from the door and his flesh hand felt her neck for a pulse. The Soldier let out a relieved sigh when he felt a faint thump against his fingers, he would have smiled if he didn't think that she was still too pale. He tapped her cheek gently, trying to get her to wake up.

When she still didn't stir he took in the rest of her body and quickly counted her wounds. She'd done a good job of fixing herself up as well as she could, but he could tell that he'd need to fix her a bit more. Most of all, she needed to wake up so he could make sure she wasn't concussed.

"вставай. пожалуйста, восемь ... давай, проснись ..." (Wake up...please, Eight...come on, wake up…) he begged her in Russian, pulling her up into his arms as gently as he could. He didn't stop to wonder why he spoke in Russian, but it felt so natural to speak to her that way. He lifted her up, cradling her small body against his own as he carried her over to the bed. He rushed back and grabbed the medical kit and paused to look at the small woman lying on the bed.

He knew her.

He didn't know if he was the Bucky Barnes from the museum, or just The Winter Soldier.

He knew Eight and he was going to save her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Doctor Soldat

Soldat let himself stare at Eight laying on the bed for just a moment before he started to get to work. He laid out some of the supplies from the med kit and looked over her body again. Her wounds were easier to see, now that she wasn't crumpled up between the bathroom sink and tub. The Soldier's mind clicked into work mode, starting the task of triaging the young woman before him. He leaned over her slightly and let his hands work down her body clinically, much like Eight had done before.

 _Bruising_ \- she had some bruising on her face and a few cuts along her cheeks. The split lip she was sporting would be annoying for her, but that would hopefully be gone in a day or two. It already looked like it was starting to scab over.

 _She heals fast…_ he thought to himself _She heals like me._ He moved his hands down further, taking extra care in being gentle with his metal hand. Despite this, Eight still flinched in her unconscious state when he pressed against a few spots along her ribs. He found multiple cracked and a 2 broken ribs on both sides. So far nothing had shifted into a dangerous position, so he'd wait till she woken up to help her wrap up her chest.

Next, he lifted up the edge of her shirt to see where the blood stains were coming from. The Soldier was relieved to see that the long gash on her left side already showed signs of healing itself. The stab wound on her right, however, was still bleeding through the gauze she'd packed it with. He peeled it back slightly to get a look at the two inch puncture and deemed that wound not life threatening. He pushed the bandage back down and moved to what looked to be her most severe injury - her thigh.

The Soldier took a deep breath as he lifted the edge of the bloody gauze with his flesh fingers. He made sure to avoid jostling the tourniquet she'd applied, not wanting to risk her bleeding out if it was truly saving her life. Eight had, in fact, managed to stop the bleeding, but The Soldier was concerned that the bullet may still be inside her leg. He lifted it up gently, feeling for an exit wound on the opposite side. His lips deepened into a frown when he wasn't able to find one.

"Of course…" he sighed, "You couldn't make this easy, kid?" he asked her quietly. He wasn't sure why he went with the nickname, but it felt right with her. He grabbed a few more supplies from the kit and left her to go wash his hands in the bathroom. He glared down at his metal fingers as the blood swirled down the drain. He found himself struck by another flashing memory…

 _His hands, still bloodied, were wrapped tightly around the neck of a middle-aged man. The soldier had him on his knees next to a smoking car on the side of a dark road. He reared back to strike the man's face again -_

Soldat cringed as he snapped back to reality, bent over the sink with his ceramic hand gripping the edge so tightly that it had cracked. He looked up at his face in the mirror, tired blue-gray eyes staring back at him. Between the fight with the Captain the day before and everything that had come to light since then, Soldat was tired. But it just took one glance behind him in the mirror at the wounded young woman on the bed for him to snap back. He couldn't waste any more time.

He went back over to the bed and made quick work of cutting away the torn fabric of Eight's leggings from just below the tourniquet and down. He wiped the affected area down with a clean gauze pad so he could actually see what he was doing. He took a few pairs of scissors and tweezers and poured rubbing alcohol over them to quickly sterilize them. The Soldier spared one last glance up at Eight's face before he started, silently begging her to stay unconscious. What he was about to do was going to hurt like hell.

Meanwhile, in the darkness where Eight was floating, she had started to dream. Initially, she just saw blurs of color, but as they sharpened she was able to make out shapes.

 _She could see buildings in the distance, lit up by the full moon and street lights. It looked like the D.C. skyline, peppered with monuments and capitol hill. She could practically feel the cool night air breezin against her skin as she realized she was sitting on the edge of the roof. Eight looked up over her shoulder and saw a man standing a foot behind her. She could feel a chuckle building in her chest as she smiled up at him, laughing at something he must have said._

 _The man had shoulder length dark hair and a very menacing physique. He was wearing all black and looked to have multiple loops and holsters throughout his suit for guns and other weapons and supplies. Eight watched as he took a seat next to her, his hand gripping hers gently. She could feel his fingers slip between her own, too firm and too cool to the touch to be normal. She looked down, seeing the glint of metal interlaced with her fingers. She let her eyes follow the metal up his wrist and his arm to the red star on his shoulder...he had a metal arm. She looked over at his face again, lit up by the moon in the cloudless sky. He looks quite handsome in this light…_

" _Однажды , восемь . Однажды , мы будем свободны от добра ... мы сделаем их платить …" (One day , Eight . One day we will be free from them for good ... we'll make them pay …) his voice rumbled quietly next to her. She never took her eyes off of his as she felt her lips pulling into a smile at him. She had this pleasant, warm feeling exploding in her chest. However, that warmth quickly turned into a blinding pain and Eight could feel herself falling off of the ledge._

She woke up just as she felt she was going to slam into the pavement below, screaming loudly in the dark bedroom. Eight tried to writhe and curl her body away from the cause of the pain, away from the figure she hadn't realized was with her in the room. She kicked out with her good leg, trying to get him off of her - unable to focus on anything beside the feeling of his fingers and tools digging through the flesh of her thigh. She clawed at his arms, tugging and pulling desperately

"No no….please stop!" she screamed in both English and Russian. She didn't care that she had tears pouring down her cheeks, she just wanted the pain to stop.

The Soldier stopped, but only to then grab her wrists from further harming herself as she tried to stop him. He tugged on them slightly, shaking her out of her daze to look up at him for the first time.

"Vosem'!" he yelled in Russian, trying to get her to focus on him. "Eight - Look at me!" When her tearful blue eyes met his and they focused slightly, the Soldier continued. "I know you don't know what's going on right now, but I need you to calm down."

Her eyes cleared up for a moment as his voice sunk into her mind. He was starting to look more familiar to her... _The man on the roof?_ she thought to herself. Her chest was heaving as she tried to breathe through the pain, only managing to nod at the man to let him know she understood.

"You did well patching yourself up, Eight - but I still need to get that bullet out of your leg. Once we get it out, your healing will take care of the rest" he explained gently, his hands still gripping her wrists. His flesh fingers were rubbing gentle, soothing circles along her wrist before reaching up to wipe away an errant tear slipping down her cheek. "Will you let me do this?"

Eight looked at him for a moment, weighing her options. There was no way she'd be able to dig through her leg for the bullet on her own; she needed help. With one last look down at her exposed leg, she relaxed her body back down onto the bed. She was still heaving for air and her body shook slightly, but she managed a small nod to him. She watched warily as he grabbed a leather belt from the dresser and held it out to her.

"Bite down on this," he said quietly, "This is gonna hurt."

She opened her mouth, wincing as her split lip pulled as she bit down on the leather. Her hands started to grip the comforter till her knuckles turned white under the dried blood caked there. He looked at her again, his eyes filled with sympathy and concern, as he silently asked her if she was ready for him to continue. When Eight nodded slightly and took a deep breath to steel herself for the pain, The Soldier resumed his search for the bullet.

The whines and screams that came from Eight were enough to make The Soldier pause for a moment, feeling a deep discomfort himself at causing her pain. He tried not to focus on her as she tried desperately to stay still and not move as he used the scissors and tweezers to dig around for the bullet.

After the longest minute in either of their lives, the Soldier caught himself chanting in his head, "Please pass out. Please pass out. Please pass out." He was practically begging her to slip back under, not wanting her to have to feel this. After another 30 seconds of him searching, her whimpers had stopped and her body went still again. The Soldat checked her quickly for a pulse with his right hand before he went back to the task at hand. A moment later he felt his tweezers hit something metallic in her thigh and he quickly grabbed onto it and pulled.

He knew from his training that he should be more concerned with nicking an artery or that dislodging the bullet could lead to more bleeding. His thought process was that, if she hadn't bled out yet, she hopefully wouldn't now. With one final tug, the tweezers holding the bullet came free and he placed fresh gauze over the wound. He placed the bloody bullet down on the corner of the dresser after looking at it to make sure it hadn't fragmented when she was shot. He was pleased to find that it was in one piece and that her wound didn't seem to be gushing blood.

The Soldier let out a sigh of relief as he got the supplies he needed to dress her leg, packing more gauze into her wound before wrapping it up in a bandage. He took advantage of her unconscious state and moved to her other side to make quick work of her stab wound. It was still bleeding a bit, but not nearly as badly as before by this point. He decided that it must not have nicked any vital organs and got a few stitches in to keep the hole closed. As he wrapped another bandage around her, he got another flash of a memory.

 _The Soldier walked into an industrial gray room. It was lined on each side with beds and monitors, set up like a sparse infirmary. A young girl was asleep in one of the beds on the right, her left arm in a plaster cast past her elbow. As he got closer, he saw that her little face was swollen and mottled with bruises. Even though this child was only 10 or 11 years old, The Soldier felt his chest constrict as he recognized the tiny figure. This was Eight..._

 _As he watched her sleeping, his memory shifted into another similar room. This time is was a gym and Little Eight was in the main ring fighting a grown woman. She had her blond hair tied back in a tight braid and she wasn't pulling any of her punches as she sparred with the child. Eight was able to block a few hits, but she wasn't strong enough or fast enough to protect herself fully and took a few hard hits to her face. The blonde woman got Eight trapped in an armbar and she moved to thrust upward and break the girl's arm -_

He snapped out of the memory as Eight shifted slightly, the belt falling from her relaxed mouth and brushing against The Soldier's hand. He took a deep, steadying breath - ignoring the shake in his body. He had apparently known the young woman in the bed for years. From the look of her now, it had to be 10 years ago….maybe more than that.

He stood up slowly, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He quietly grabbed all of the soiled bandages and supplies and threw them out in the small bathroom. He did his best wiping the blood off of the tiled floor and counter, deciding that they'd have to deal with the stained carpet after she woke up. He took a seat in an arm chair that he had carried in from the living room and set it near her bed. Now, he had to wait for her to wake up again and he hoped that she had more information than he did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **A/N - I still don't own any Marvel related things. Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed the story so far! If you want to drop a little review, that'd be SUPER cool - but if not, that's okay too!**

 **Just so you know, Italics is generally thoughts or dreams for this. There are going to be some flashbacks in the forms of dreams for a bit to explain some back story!**

…

The Soldier sat by the bed watching Eight sleep for a few hours, flinching to attention at each noise he heard. Theoretically, he knew that they were safe here - the girl on the bed had told him as much - but that didn't stop him from sinking deeper into his paranoia. Everything he knew had changed in the last day and he wasn't in a spot to start taking any unnecessary risks. He played with the bullet he'd pulled from her leg, analyzing the caliber and the rifling that he could see - or the lack thereof. He wracked his battered brain trying to remember any little detail, but his brain just played static.

Frustrated, he stood up and checked Eight for a pulse again, just to make sure. Like every other time he had checked, he still felt the steady beating of her heart thumping under his fingers - but something was different. He raised his flesh hand from her neck to her forehead and he felt himself wince. She was running a high fever and felt clammy, her body shivering slightly. Their enhanced bodies should have been able to start healing from the wounds she suffered already, but here this girl was getting worse on him instead of better. The Soldier grabbed a rag from the bathroom and soaked it in cool water from the sink. He placed it over her forehead, feeling her move her head in the direction of the cool feeling.

"What is wrong with you, Vosem?" he asked himself, knowing that the unconscious girl wasn't going to answer him. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees as both of his hands grabbed his face. This wasn't supposed to be this complicated. He wasn't sure of much at the moment, but he knew in his bones that healing was supposed to be much easier than this for them.

In her fevered state, Eight was dreaming or hallucinating...remembering more things about her past that involved the man with the metal arm.

 _A six year old Eight sat at a typical kids desk in a classroom of an underground compound. She knew it was underground because it was almost always cold and had no windows. There were 14 kids total in the program, a special learning facility for gifted kids. Looking around, Eight saw 8 boys and 6 girls. They were each named in the order that they arrived at the boarding facility - One through Fourteen or Odin to Chetymadtsat'. She remembered being told that the numbers were assigned to eliminate any peer teasing on the basis of names or parentage._

 _For as long as Eight could remember, she had been with her classmates. This was a multinational immersion program designed for the gifted children of politicians and world leaders. They were all sent to the facility to learn the skills to needed to be productive members of an ever-changing and multinational society. The students were a wide mix of ethnicities and backgrounds, illustrating the widely cultured reach of the program._

 _All of their lessons were taught in both Russian and English, the adults at the facility all being addressed as "Ser/Sir" or "Sudarynya/Ma'am". She could recall learning to read and write in both English and Cyrillic alphabets, able to switch easily between the two languages by the time she was 5. On this day in her memory, they were assembling and disassembling 9mm handguns - working toward completing it in a set amount of time. Days where they played with the guns were some of the students' favorites, like a game. Ser enjoyed making it into a race to see who could do it the fastest. Pyat/Five, a boy with darker skin, had come in first on this day, Eight finished in 3rd place._

 _After they put their guns away, the students were told to line up and follow Ser down the hall to their gym area. Normally, this was the time of day where they'd run or wrestle - but today there were more adults crowded in the room. Eight counted 6 people in workout gear on the mat and there were a large number of others in lab coats and guards in full riot gear._

" _Today, you all get to watch the best fighters to graduate from this program," Ser announced before telling the set of 6 year olds to sit at the edge of the mat. "Soldat...spar with Josef." Two men walked out onto the mat. One had longer, dark brown hair and was wearing black pants and a black top, covered by a fitted jacket. The other had cropped light brown hair, his muscles bulging out of his gray tank top. They both had a menacing look in their eye as they squared off._

 _Eight sat with her legs crossed, watching the two men. Their sparring looked like an intricate dance, each one blocking and parrying like a professional. It was a treat to see for the students, the fighters hardly missed any blocks and when one of them landed a hit the students cheered. During one exchange, Josef had caught the edge of The Soldat's jacket and got him tangled. With a smoothness that amazed Eight, the Soldat shrugged and spun out of his jacket and got Josef tangled in it in the process. He landed a few hard punches to Josef's face before he locked the man in a headlock._

 _Ser called off the fight then and the two men needed to be separated by the armed guards waiting at the opposite edge of the mat. The student's clapped excitedly, but Eight got distracted by the one Ser called "Soldat." She found herself fixated on his arm, his left arm. It was the prettiest, shiny metal that she had seen. It practically sparkled in the harsh lighting of the training gym. She wondered what had happened to his arm - Did he get hurt in an accident or maybe fighting in a war? She knew that the world could be a harsh place - that's why she and her classmates were in the program. They were going to grow up with the skillset to survive in the dangerous world they lived in._

 _Ser paired up the rest of the fighters - a blonde woman fought a man who looked asian and then a darker skinned man fought the largest person Eight had ever seen. He looked tall enough to touch the ceiling and he was the only fighter with a full beard. Each one had a unique fighting style which made each sparring match different and entertaining for the students. They all clapped when they were done before they were instructed to stand up and get back into line so they could get escorted to their next lesson. As they were walked out, Eight looked back at the metal armed man again - her eyes meeting his. He looked away first as he was shoved toward another door by one of the guards._

Eight shifted on the bed, causing The Soldier to look back at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her breaths were coming in shallow pants. He leaned his head down and placed his ear on her chest, hearing a faint crackling as she breathed. She had fluid in her lungs, which added to his worry. He took the rag away and re-wet it again, intending to place it back on her forehead, but The Soldier found himself gently wiping away some of the stains of blood on her face and her arms. He heard her whimper quietly before settling back down.

 _A few weeks later, the students were getting escorted to their lunch when Eight saw him again. She could hear the loud grunts of fighting coming from the gym as they passed and she slipped out of line to investigate. Eight was always one of the lightest on her feet and had already managed to sneak away from her various Sers and Ma'ams on a few occasions. She opened the door slightly and poked her head into the gym to see who was making the noise._

 _This time when she saw him, The Soldat was in a full black leather uniform and he was fighting a group of armed guards. The metal arm that still fascinated her was on display in his uniform, crashing into the helmets and faces of the guards. She could tell it was a spar because The Soldat was pulling his punches enough to not cause any serious harm. She creeped further into the room, ducked behind some equipment, and watched him fight._

 _Eight was unable to stop a quiet gasp when she saw an overzealous guard land a hard hit to the Soldat's face as two others took hold of his flesh arm and twisted. The Soldat's bright blue eyes immediately found her own, hiding in the shadows. As he lost concentration, the guards got the upper hand and landed more hits to his face and torso. Her view was blocked by the white fabric of a doctor's coat who had found her hiding spot when he followed the Soldat's distracted gaze. He grabbed her shirt roughly, tugging on the shoulder and dragging her out of the room and down the hall._

 _She could feel fear gripping her tiny body as Ser appeared a few feet ahead of them, a familiar disappointed look on his face. The doctor and Ser conferred quickly in what Eight recognized as German, but didn't understand. Still - she didn't need to know the language to understand what the punishment for disobedience was. She was going to The Room._

 _Eight had been sent there once before, after she went sneaking around the facility after light's out a few months earlier. She should have known better than to sneak off again - but she wanted to learn more about the metal armed soldier. Now, Ser was pulling her toward The Room, yanking roughly on her small arm._

 _The Room was more of a closet or a crawl space, pitch black with a ceiling low enough that the 6 year old students needed to squat to fit inside. The floor was a freezing cold metal that was covered in a film of frost or ice. This made it impossible to sit down inside, but with the low ceiling she couldn't stand up either. She felt tears well in her navy blue eyes as Ser opened the door and pushed her inside. She slipped and fell down onto the freezing metal hard, springing back up to a squat as he shut the door. Eight shivered in the pitch black, hoping she wouldn't be left in there for long this time._

"Kholod...led...led…" Eight whimpered, loud enough for The Soldier to hear. "Slishkom kholodno." She was whining about being cold and ice, being too cold. He went back to the bed and saw her shivering more vigorously now. He felt her forehead again and she was burning up still, yet muttering about being cold. Her breathing was more labored now and he could tell that she was slipping into a panic about something. The Soldier shook her as gently as he could, trying to rouse her from her dream.

"Vosem'...wake up, you need to calm down…" he tried, pleading quietly with her. Her breathing grew more ragged, wheezing painfully through the room as The Soldier watched a tear slip down her bruised cheek. He felt utterly helpless, watching her suffer through whatever nightmare she was reliving.


End file.
